


Hoodlum

by BatchSan



Series: HSWC '13 Fills [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Blow Jobs, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Gangs, M/M, Oneshot, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatchSan/pseuds/BatchSan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <i>1980’s America – Teenagers in rival street gangs</i> - written for HSWC’s BR3</p><p>Egbert was a well-groomed member of the Fedora Freaks gang. Dirk ‘Bro’ Strider was a hoodlum from the Latin Swords. Naturally, they hated each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoodlum

**Author's Note:**

> As it says on the tin. I’ve never written Bro/Dad and it was on a complete random (and sudden) whim that I wrote this. =) Teenage!Dad turned out to be super fun to write. Hehe!

You are pleasantly sitting on the bench in front of the grocery store near your apartment building. It was raining earlier in the day and while you normally wouldn't risk needlessly dirtying your immaculately clean slacks with the threat of puddles, you enjoyed the smell after it rained. Purchasing a newspaper from the grocery store, you laid it neatly on the still wet bench out front and sat down to simply enjoy the scent. You're considering indulging in some teenage delinquency by lighting up your favorite smoking pipe. It was your father's before he died some years ago and a fine piece of wooden craftsmanship. Perhaps if you ever have a son of your own, you'll pass it down to him.

"Egbert!" someone cries, capturing your immediate attention.

You look up to see one of your gang associates running up to you. The bottom of his slacks are drenched with puddle water and his black shoes are scuffed up. You'd bet a pretty dime his socks were also currently against gang protocol, but he looks angry, and tired from his run, so you bite your tongue and greet him with the customary gang sign of your gang, a well done nod of acknowledgement of your fellow gang member.

"Egbert, the latin boys from 80th Street are two blocks over, busting up Bob, Jimmy, and Alfred," Phil says, removing his fedora to mop his sweated brow with a handkerchief.

"This won't do. Those rascals have picked on us for the last time," you say, getting to your feet hastily.

Together you take off down the avenue, weapons already in hand. Phil has a broken bottle because he left his pocket knife at home - you will give him a stern reminder of the regulations associated with the Fedora Freaks, until then, the broken bottle will tide him amicably. In your, clearly more response hand, you have a pocket knife, unsheathed. The blade is a delicate four inches long, perfect for getting the point across.

On Holmstock Ave, you turn the corner and find five of your fellow teenage delinquents roughing up your three associates. This simply will not do! Phil shouts at them, capturing their attention long enough for Alfred and Bob to land a good punch on their attackers' faces. Two of the rival gang members sprint off when they see you and Phil show up. However, the one hassling Jimmy doesn't even bat an eye at the turn of events. Or so you don't think as he has strangely shaped sunglasses on. Something like that would be in strict violation of the Fedora Freaks, but you expect nothing decent from the roundabout louts always trying to muscle into your territory.

Phil jumps in to help Alfred while you slash Bob's attacker once on the arm and again across the cheek. Bob quickly takes over, thanking you for a job well done before wiping his bloody nose on his once white buttoned shirt. You turn your attention onto the hoodlum still roughing up Jimmy. Attempting to slash at him does nothing as he only dodges the attacks with surprising speed. You don't let this deter you from attempting to help your associate and eventually the hoodlum lets Jimmy go and squares his shoulders at you. You glare at each other for a moment before someone shouts that the cops are heading this way. 

Everyone takes off in different directions, associates and rivals alike scatter like cockroaches. Two moments later, you find yourself panting against a brick wall in an alleyway. It's not a favorable location but it's better than being incorrectly harassed by policemen that refuse to understand the truth of what occurred. A bag of garbage shifts nearby and you whirl quickly toward the sound to find the same hoodlum that had been pounding on Jimmy watching you silently.

You both move at the same time. He's faster, as you're already aware of, and you find yourself pressed into the brick wall with your knife knocked easily away.

"Hey there," he says.

"Hello," you respond.

He glances around to make sure the two of you are alone and you know what's coming before it happens. 

His lips slide easily against yours, your mouth falling open to accept his probing tongue. Your arms slide around his waist; his arms slide around your shoulders. It's taboo - against all the regulations of both of your gangs - but the simple matter is, Dirk 'Bro' Strider, member of the Latin Swords makes you hotter than a fever, and apparently the same goes for him about yourself.

He also makes your blood boil. With his ridiculous sunglasses, dyed blond hair, and the silly doll he enjoys carrying around everywhere hanging off his back like a baby monkey. His gang is a deplorable den of ruffians who simply do not understand the way of proper hygiene or proper gang etiquette. Actually, you're certain most of them don't even know how to spell etiquette.

But Dirk is different than the others. You've watched him disappear into a library for three hours, emerging with a stack of legally borrowed books that he returns promptly on time. He's quoted Shakespeare and Nietzsche at you in the heat of battle, savoring the way it throws you off to hear it. When he speaks, he speaks with purpose, though he seems to enjoy saying things that will annoy you; simple little jabs about your attire or taste in bread. You hate him, truly, but you can't get enough of him.

"I've told you repeatedly to stay off my territory," you say to him as he busily undoes your belt buckle. You're certain he's popped off the last two buttons of your button-down as well, which you will make him pay to repair.

"Not like you ever take the time to come visit me on my turf," he says, undoing his jeans' zipper.

"It's against the rules."

"Pft, you and your rules. Show that your gang is a bit more than a bunch of blue collared brownosers by breaking a rule every now and then," Dirk says.

You grab a handful of his hair and force his head back so you can bite his neck. He grunts and tries to jerk away from your grip but you hold on tight and slip a hand down his pants. The only time he really shuts up and listens to what you have to tell him is usually when you have him gripped firmly in your hand. But not always.

"Do not disrespect the Fedora Freaks, you little hoodlum, or so help me, I'll make you regret your every life decision that led you here."

He grunts again as you get your hand into his underwear, finding him hard. Using the leverage, you swap places with him against the brick wall and take pleasure in the way his caramel cheeks have grown dark with a blush.

"That's good, Egbert," he says, pushing his hips out when you stroke him, your thumb rubbing at the tip of his penis. "I love when you do your dorky dirty talk."

"You're a miscreant," you hiss at him as his hand slips into your regulation tighty-whiteys. 

"And you clearly love it. Or is that hard-on because of all the dorky dirty talk?"

Your well-trimmed nails dig into his scalp as you yank on his hair so hard he goes down on his knees. He only looks up at you with his shades, possibly rolling his eyes at you, before freeing you enough from your underwear and slacks to get his mouth around your erection. Normally you wouldn't resort this to this level debauchery, but there really was no reason for him to rough up Jimmy the way he had been doing. That plus his snarky mouth afterward was too great a disrespect to everything you stood for to let it slide.

Bracing your hands in his hair, you alternate between allowing him to leisurely suck you off and fucking his mouth like the filthy hoodlum he enjoys pretending to be. When you climax, you make sure he swallows it all down, drawing a severe frown from Dirk in the process.

"My turn," he says when you release him and reach down to begin adjusting yourself.

"Tomorrow," you say, tucking your shirt into your slacks before doing them up. "And I'll send you the bill for the tailor repair of my shirt."

"What do you mean tomorrow?" he asks angrily.

Adjusting your fedora, you get out your smoking pipe and light it up before indulging him with an answer.

"I was just thinking tomorrow I might come up and bust up a car or two on your 'turf'," you say.

Although you can't see his eyes, you can tell he's glaring at you, mainly in disbelief.

"Really?" he finally asks as you begin to walk away.

You turn and wink at him before continuing about your way. You have to gather your associates and let them know about tomorrow's plans after all.


End file.
